


Maroon

by stevierosebudds (vulcantastic)



Category: Schitt's Creek
Genre: David Rose is a Good Person, Fluff, Light Angst, M/M, Patrick is insecure
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-08
Updated: 2020-10-08
Packaged: 2021-03-07 23:47:56
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,612
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26886118
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/vulcantastic/pseuds/stevierosebudds
Summary: David's excited to give Patrick one of his Christmas presents a little early.
Relationships: Patrick Brewer/David Rose
Comments: 18
Kudos: 249





	Maroon

**Author's Note:**

> The Twitter timeline got me thinking about how much blue Patrick wears, and then this happened.
> 
> Entirely unedited, written just for fun. Hang in there, everyone. This year is almost over.

“It’s red.”

David watches Patrick watching the sweater on his lap, meticulously unboxed from its Christmas-themed holding which lay loose on the floor next to the couch. They’d promised each other one gift before their holiday party this evening, and now that David has made time to ogle over the sleek espresso set Patrick bought him to “up his morning coffee game,” it’s time to do what he once thought was impossible.

A couple of months into their marriage, David has decided Patrick is ready to wade into more colorful waters.

“Actually,” he replies, carefully, noting the sheer discomfort in Patrick’s expression, “it’s maroon.”

Patrick nods once, short. “But.”

He looks up from the cashmere sweater—one David spent an inordinate amount of time picking out to ensure it adhered to his husband’s overall style: an impossibly soft Elliot Mulryan crewneck featuring a simple knitted pattern. Cozy, practical, yet classy.

“I had a _blue_ sweater for tonight, David. With the tiny snowflake print. You approved it.”

“Mm, true,” David says, keeping his tone as even as possible to combat the worry in Patrick’s. “But I wanted you to show this off tonight.” He shimmies a bit. “Do you like it?”

“I-I do. It’s just that.” He pets the sweater, tapping it a few times like it’s some kind of foreign object. “Blue goes better with my eyes.” He peers up at David, looking kind of like a sad, lost cat. “Look at my _eyes_ , David.”

“Oh, I do. Pretty often. They’re _very_ beautiful.” David scoots over on the couch so he cangently run his fingers along Patrick’s shoulder, stopping to mindlessly pick at the fabric of his pajama t-shirt which is, of course, sky blue. “But I thought something different might be nice _._ And it’s just that, um. Sometimes. Blue washes you out a bit, especially in winter, because, um. You—”

“—Have the skin tone of a sickly Victorian child, I know.”

David lifts his hands in self-defense. “Okay, _you_ said it, not me.”

Patrick jabs a finger into David’s chest. “Blue is my thing. _You_ wear black and white all the time. That’s your thing.”

“Mkay, _that_ is the result of curating a brand over the course of my entire life.” David closes his fingers over Patrick’s hand on his chest, squeezing just a bit. “Whereas I think _you_ might be just a little afraid to branch out, honey.”

And then Patrick crosses his arms and juts out his bottom lip a little bit, and it is annoying and adorable at once. “That’s ridiculous, David. I branch out all the time.”

“Mhm, okay,” David props himself up on his elbow against the back of the couch. “Tell me more about that.”

“Well, the other day I wore a plaid button-down! I don’t normally go for those.”

David nods seriously. “And what color was that button-down?”

“…Blue and gray.”

“Uh-huh. And the nice dress shirt you got for your cousin’s First Communion in April?”

Patrick sighs in defeat. “Navy.”

“Exactly.” David pats Patrick’s lap. “Maroon is a neutral. You can still wear all your favorite things with this sweater. Like the faded Levis that show off your butt. And that nice brown belt you like. It doesn’t change your look at all. It just adds a new little pop of color.”

Patrick shrugs. Bites the inside of his lip. “Blue looks good on me.”

“It does, your slightly pallid complexion aside,” David agrees with a grin, reaching to run his fingers against the nape of Patrick’s neck. “But this will, too. It’ll bring out the flecks of gold in your hair. The blush in your cheeks.”

There’s a short pause, and Patrick is looking at him, eyes big and shining. “I didn’t …” He scratches the back of his head, clearly feeling awkward. “I didn’t think you thought about me that way. I mean, in relation to clothes. What would look good on me. It’s …. sweet. Because I know how much this stuff means to you.”

David says nothing. He’s learned that Patrick needs to take his time when being vulnerable, and for that David is always willing to wait.

Sure enough, after several seconds Patrick averts his gaze again, and here’s where David thinks they’ll get to the heart of it, to what he’s been trying to bring out of him for a while.

“Look. You know fashion sense isn’t my strongest attribute,” Patrick says, voice wavering slightly. “Blue is easy. It’s … what I know, and it’s … simple, and I don’t have to worry about what I’m wearing standing next to you because it’s expected.”

 _What I’m wearing standing next to you_. There’s a heaviness to the phrase that David knows they both can feel. And that’s just it, isn’t it? Reminding Patrick that he’s so much more to David than part of an aesthetic, more than a complement to a perfect look?

That’s David’s job. And he’ll do it a million times over if he has to.

“Patrick Brewer.” David leans over and cups Patrick’s face in his hands. “I love you no matter what you wear. Which, please know that is _huge_ coming from me.” He tilts his head back a little, squeezing his eyes shut. “Like, I love you in _spite_ of what you choose to put on your body sometimes.”

Patrick laughs wetly. “I’m aware. Lest we forget the sale-rack cargo shorts of 2017.”

David pulls away aggressively and doesn’t bother resisting a full-body shudder. “Don’t fucking remind me.”

“They were _comfortable_!”

“They were _trash disguised in denim._ ”

Patrick is smiling now. Teasing David always seems to lift his spirits, and David’s willing to make the occasional ego sacrifice to see the crinkles in the corners of his eyes, to see him throw his head back in uncontrolled laughter.

He reaches toward Patrick again, this time taking his hand, kissing the inside of his palm. “I want you to be comfortable. I want you to be _confident_. Not … hiding behind a staple. I want you to feel okay—no, I want you to feel _good_ in other colors. In _any_ color.” He threads their fingers together. “I’m _proud_ that you’re my husband, Patrick. I want you to be proud, too.”

Patrick has that soft look on his face which doesn’t bode well for David as a sympathetic crier. “David …” He begins, and his voice cracks, and he closes the remaining space between them with a soft kiss. He says, barely above a whisper, “ _Thank_ you.”

“You don’t have to thank me,” David replies, voice thick. He waves a hand dismissively in hopes it’ll keep his emotions in line, then gestures to the sweater. “Just try on the damn thing before I start my morning facial routine. Otherwise you’ll have to wait at least two hours.”

“Okay, okay.” Patrick stands up, holding the sweater in his arms like a swaddled baby, reverent. He leans down and presses a kiss to David’s forehead and whispers, “I love you.”

“I love you,” David echoes. He notices Patrick has a little bit of a hop in his step as he dashes up to the bedroom, and if that’s the only other present David receives this entire holiday season, he’ll be happy.

(He’s really banking on that Armani wristwatch, though.)

* * *

_A vision in burgundy_ , David thinks at the party that night, and then he decides even his stream of consciousness is starting to sound an awful lot like his mother, and maybe he should unpack that sometime.

Patrick stands in the kitchen doorway, donning the new sweater, a pair of dark wash jeans, and brown oxfords. He’s chuckling at something Ray just said, leaning into it, one hand in his pocket while the other cradles a beer. The color does, indeed, bring out the slight blonde hues in his hair. The light pink flush of alcohol and happiness in his face.

And David thinks in the glow of the shimmering holiday decor that Patrick is the most beautiful thing he’s ever seen.

He waits a painstaking few seconds for Patrick to wrap up his conversation before sauntering over to him, draping his arms around his shoulders.

“You look perfect.” David runs his hands over Patrick’s chest, the softness of the fabric tickling his fingers. “I just want to unwrap you like the lil’ present you are.”

“Hm.” Patrick plants a firm kiss on David’s lips. “Tempting. Maybe when we don’t have twelve people in our house, though?”

David sighs theatrically. “That’s fair.”

Of course, their guests’ reaction to Patrick’s look is overwhelmingly positive (with the exception of Stevie, who squawks, “ _Red_? Are you feeling okay?”). Bob goes so far as to ask if wearing cashmere would “bring Gwen back,” a question David overwhelmingly does not care to answer, and to which Patrick can only respond with a sympathetic pat on the back as Bob wipes a fat tear from his face.

He watches Patrick receive compliments all night, beaming all the while. And each time, even from on the other side of the living room, when the words are just a little hum amongst the chatter, David hears it—the swell of pride, of contentedness, in every syllable:

“Thanks. My husband got it for me.”

It makes David furiously bashful every time, and he finds himself shooting his glance to the floor, and Stevie elbows him and gently teases him to get over the use of the term already. But David doesn’t think he ever will.

Once, they lock eyes across the room, steady, unwavering.

David can’t wait until later tonight, just the two of them, snuggled close together in bed, to inform Patrick that maroon brings out his brown eyes, too.


End file.
